


Batting A Thousand

by trilliath



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Badass Erica, Cop Erica, F/F, Harassment, Promptfic, Slurs, Tattooed Lydia, badass lydia, unwanted touching, verbal harassment by nasty stranger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 20:19:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3087773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trilliath/pseuds/trilliath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia approves of trains. She approves of public transportation in general. She approves of having the assurance of a ride to the places she needs to go, without the hassles of traffic or fuel prices or parking or maintenance.</p><p>She does not, however, always approve of her fellow passengers.</p><p>[Based off a tumblr story that detailed a woman's experience on the train...]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Batting A Thousand

**Author's Note:**

> I desperately need Lydia to someday be made up to wear a million tattoos. And have dimple piercings. And as always I have a keen weakness for Erica as a cop.  
> I'm trying to resist the urge to make this into a longer fic where Erica needs Lydia's help as a translator and Derek is a deaf man who works with Lydia and Stiles comes in to try and learn about sign because Scott has suddenly lost his hearing traumatically and he doesn't know how to help his bro and... Yeah. I'm TRYING not to write more. But I'm probably going to fail horribly.

Lydia approves of trains. She approves of public transportation in general. She approves of having the assurance of a ride to the places she needs to go, without the hassles of traffic or fuel prices or parking or maintenance.

She does not, however, always approve of her fellow passengers.

Her ride home in the evenings is a long one, one that starts in the metropolitan city's center and ends in a nice suburb. When she can, she picks a seat in the corner, one out of the way of people getting on and off and talking loudly about their days. But the crowds that are always on the lightrail after work hours often force her to take a seat out in the open until the car clears enough for her to relocate. Today the only seat open was one of the ones near the doors, which frequently seems to somehow be taken as an invitation for social contact by the less socially-aware members of the public. But between awkward seats on the one hand, and the non-consensual frottage and her tall heels on the other, standing is even less appealing an option. 

Usually her headphones and carefully uninterested nonverbal behaviors are sufficient to keep even the most sociable people from trying to strike up a conversation.

Not always, however. To some, her admittedly loud appearance seems to be taken as an open invitation to be harassed, instead of the spiked 'keep off' sign it ought to be understood as. That, or simply the fact that she's a woman.

Tonight, to her misfortune, there appears to be one such idiot near her, who slides into the seat beside her with the loose-limbed drunkenness that startles her out of her thoughts. The guy is big. Not huge maybe, but bigger than her, anyway, with the sort of posture that says the world exists to make space for him. Middle-aged and average he's wearing a bland looking hoodie from some second-rate brand that cost twice what it should and is meant for people half his age. He has his thighs slung wide, the dirty jeans pushing up against Lydia's tights. She can see out of her peripheral vision that he's staring at her. She's used to being looked at. The tattoos that run over most of her body are eye-catching, as is her bright red-and-orange hair and various studded piercings and accessories. But he's not just looking at her. He's inspecting her. She carefully turns her gaze out the window, but even her slight motion seems to be taken as some sort of interest. 

He leans over, pushing into her personal space enough that she can smell his rancid breath as he gestures vaguely at her body and says in a too-loud voice, "You know, I'd fuck you if you didn't have so many tattoos."

A few people glance her way in discomfort, though nobody really makes eye contact with her. One of the men opposite her glances over, but he looks at her tattooed sleeves and sneers, turning back to his newspaper. Lydia crosses her legs more tightly and turns her head away, pointedly turning up the volume on her headphones. 

The asshole makes a face and leans closer, sticking his hand out to wave in front of her face, to demand her attention. One elderly woman is watching her with a frown. A blonde woman near the far door with tired eyes and wearing a puffy black coat narrows her eyes on the man when he shifts his body so that he's blocking Lydia into the corner more tightly, stretching his arm over the seat in front of them. 

"Hey, did you hear me?" he demands, reaching out like he's going to pull her headphones off her head himself. "I said I'd fuck you if you didn't have so many tattoos!"

Lydia purses her lips, carefully takes off her headphones, and turns a hard gaze on him. She meets his eyes, head high, putting as much authority as she can into her small frame as she says, "Leave. Me. Alone."

He ignores her statement, instead leering at her body with disgust-laden lust. There's a sour smell on his breath as he huffs out, "Why the fuck do you have so many tattoos?"

Lydia turns her head away, eyes scanning over the train car for a different place to sit or stand, though anywhere else she could move to is shared by surrounding open seats, and she has a feeling that this asshole would just follow her. There is, however, an emergency speaker system that connects to the conductor. It's over by the door, and the blond woman standing near it looks like she might at least help run interference. She considers going to it and asking for some help. But the train is slowing and she's concerned that the man will try and push her out of the doors at the next stop, get her away from the eyes of others or any help the conductor might provide.

She hates that such things are legitimate concerns.

"Hey. I'm talking to you! Are you fucking deaf?" 

Lydia glares at him. She _hates_ that 'insult'. 

"She said to leave her alone," the blonde woman says, straightening away from the wall.

"Yeah well I ain't talking to you," the guy spits, ignoring the woman as he glares at Lydia. "I'm talking to this piece of deaf and dumb trash."

Very precisely she lifts her hand and taps her ear twice. "Obviously I hear." Bends her right fingers over her left and lifts her right hand up. "Better than you." Jabs a disparaging finger at him. " _I_ said fuck off," she finishes saying, accompanied by a middle finger, pushing up from her seat to try and slide past the guy as some other passenger snickers at her signed words.

But either the laughter or her attempt to leave sends rage into his face.

"You think you're fucking funny? You piece of trash," the guy hisses, shoving her shoulder and knocking her back into her seat. "All tattooed like a fucking man," he breathes, pushing closer into Lydia's space and groping a hand in between her thighs. 

Lydia flinches, looking up at the others on the train, hoping someone is noticing what's going on before he actually hurts her. When she locks eyes with the blonde woman on the other end of the train, the woman's expression shifts from wary to furious as she pushes away from the door and strides over.

"You disgusting waste of pussy. What'd you do, pierce holes in your cunt too?"

"Hey. Leave her alone, now," comes the authoritative order. "Miss, are you okay?"

"Not really," Lydia says tightly as she twists her leg away from the man's groping hand. 

"Oh what, you want this piece of trash cunt now? Well I got here first, dyke," he says, laughing as he brushes her off with a sneer, eyes homing in on Lydia's breasts as he shifts closer again and reaches higher, even as she shoves at his hand. "Fucking dykes. You all need a good dose of cock to shut you up." 

Fear is ratcheting up but so is a flicker of relief at the fact that someone is going to help her. Except… she'd ask her for help but at the same time she really doesn't want to turn this guy's anger on another woman. At least the woman's movement has galvanized some of the other bystanders into reacting a little. Books have been put down. Cell phones have come out.

"I don't know this man. I just want him to leave me alone," she says clearly so that anyone watching can't pretend not to know that she's unhappy with this situation. 

"Don't worry," the woman's mouth twists into a feral curl as she carefully shifts her puffy black jacket open so that Lydia can see the shining silver badge on her hip. "I can make that happen."

"Who the fuck do you think you are, bitch? I'm having a private fucking conversation here," the man says, not even bothering to look at her fully, eyes still on Lydia's tits.

"Sir, you need to step back from the young lady, right now," the officer says sharply, setting a hand on his shoulder.

"You stupid fucking cunt," the man snaps, twisting in his seat finally, stumbling upright and looming. "You want summa' this?" he growls, pushing into the officer's space. He pulls his sweatshirt up to reveal a bowie-knife shoved into his jeans. "I'll fucking kill you, you bitch."

The sight of the weapon has Lydia's heart shooting up into her throat. 

The man reaches out to grab the officer or shove her or something, but the woman twists, hand coming up to divert his grab and close around his wrist, dragging him past her, off balance and then he's spinning and his knees are buckling and she's slamming his head into the seat beside Lydia. 

"Ooh, assaulting and threatening a federal officer. You are just batting a thousand tonight, aren't you?" she coos, leaning her knee into his neck to quell his struggling as she swings her handcuffs out from under her jacket, sweeping them down to tighten over the wrist still held in her grasp and then the other. "Harassing women on the train was enough for an arrest, but that'll get you at _least_ six months."

Her long braid slips down over her shoulder as she hauls him upright and drags him over to the emergency call box in order to hit the button. When the conductor answers she tells him she's a federal marshal, that she's apprehended a criminal and to call the police to meet them at the next stop. Then she shoves him roughly up against the wall next to the train's doors, kicking his feet wide and then yanking the bowie knife out from his belt.

She tucks it into her own belt under her jacket, moving with a feline grace as she pats him down for other weapons as the train starts to slow for the next stop. Lydia's already half-way to her feet when the recorded voice announces their arrival at the platform. Seeing the red and blue lights of a police car sitting in the bus lane near the train stop, and another one coming up the road from afar, it's a relief to see. Not because she's always had the best interactions with police, but because at least the woman who'd helped her wouldn't have to deal with that asshole without backup for much longer.

When the doors open and the Marshal hauls the asshat out the door, the people in the train car start applauding, even cheering and whistling and Lydia can only feel the aftertaste of bitterness in the recollection of how few of them had actually thought to do or say something. 

It's easy to cheer now. 

Even though the marshal hasn't asked her to come, the thought of remaining on the train with all those people is a distasteful one. She grabs her bag and darts after the marshal, though it's not her stop. It's not terribly late and there will be another train in just fifteen minutes or so.

The assailant is spewing a litany of insults at the marshal as she leads him over to the city policeman. Lydia steps off the train just as one of the cops gestures wildly at his partner or subordinate.

"Greenberg, get on the train," the cops is demanding of a young and unfortunate-looking officer who scrambles over to hit the open button on the doors as they slide shut and ends up smacking his wrist against the door before making it onto the train.

Then he turns around looking confused and plaintive at his partner/mentor.

"Statements. Witnesses," the cop shouts through the closed door at the younger officer, making a disgusted sound as the train starts pulling away from the station.

The man gets handed off as the other cops stride over from their double-parked cruiser and Lydia stands there, arms wrapped around her torso, watching as the marshal sighs and runs a hand over the crown of her head and down her braid.

She turns and looks surprised to see Lydia, then her face immediately molds into something that looks like professional concern. "Oh, you didn't have to… Are you all right, miss…?" she asks, moving closer but not getting too close.

"Martin. Lydia Martin. And no, but I will be," she says honestly. 

"Yeah. I get that," the woman says, offering her a grim smile. She reaches into her coat, fiddling around for something, then pulls out a card, handing it over to Lydia. 

"I'm Erica Reyes," she says as Lydia takes the card and looks at it carefully, studying the embossed U.S. Marshals crest and the phone numbers. 

"Listen," the marshal says, clearing her throat and putting a professional smile on her face. "I'm going to save you the hassle of pressing charges with this guy and do it myself. And I'm sure the cameras on the train will do the rest, but just in case, it would be good if we had your number."

Lydia reaches into her clutch and then extends her own card to Erica. Any other night and she'd be making a quip about how Erica had better use it, or some other flirtatious nonsense. But tonight she just nods, silent. Dating isn't in the cards right now for her, and especially not tonight.

"Interpreter, huh?" Erica says, smiling at her. 

"Among other things," Lydia replies, signing the words as she says them, pleased when Erica looks impressed. She also looks impressed as her eyes drift down over Lydia's bare arms.

"Love your ink. Aren't you freezing?" Erica asks, pulling her coat tighter again.

Lydia arches an eyebrow. "I take it you're not from the Northwest then?"

Erica snickers, snuggling down into her coat. "What gave me away?"

Lydia can't help but smile then. She hesitates a moment, then reaches up to her neck to lift the grey crocheted scarf she's wearing. The looped yarn gets turned around and then lifted up over Erica's head. Lydia lifts her braid out of the way and settles it against her neck.

"That should help," she says. "Layers are the trick to surviving here."

It's nothing special, like most of her crocheted things something she or a friend had made. Just something she'd done to keep her hands busy on the commute on days where she still had excess energy. She leaves them on statues sometimes when she gets too many accumulated. So, nothing special.

Still. Erica's eyes are wide when Lydia steps back and looks the marshal over, and Lydia can't tell whether it's the cool air or a blush that heats her lightly-tanned cheeks, but either way the result is adorable.

Lydia finds herself smiling fondly at the sight, and she starts to reconsider the whole not-flirting thing, when the moment is interrupted by the sounds of another train rolling up the tracks.

"Listen, I've got to go with them and give a statement and all that," Erica says, thumbing over at the police cruiser. "But you can head home if you're ready. I've got your number if they need you."

And Lydia can't deny the wash of relief that fills her at the idea of getting home, feeling safe and secure again. She bites her lip, glancing at the train.

"If you feel okay to go alone, that is. Do you need an escort? I could get one of these guys to…"

She trails off at Lydia's haughty eyebrow raise. 

"Right. What was I thinking," Erica says with a wry grin that tugs the edge of a responding smile onto Lydia's face, before it turns a little more solemn. "Okay, go on then, get home safe."

"Thank you for your help," Lydia says sincerely as she tucks her bag more tightly under her arm as the train pulls to a stop at the station, the recorded voice making its announcements as the doors open.

Erica just tosses her a lazy salute and a wink and says in a low drawl, "Anytime, ma'am."

And oh. Yes. Lydia is definitely reconsidering the flirting moratorium. But the train is about to leave and she's not about to let herself stoop so low as to simper over a cute girl that easily, so Lydia lifts her chin and strides away onto the train, noticing with a great deal of pleasure that one of her favorite, isolated seats is available.

But she looks back as the doors close, watches Erica lift her hand in parting as the train starts to move and pulls them further apart. Returns the gesture.

Sometimes, as it turns out, Lydia does approve of people who ride the train with her.


End file.
